Chronicle: Session 12
The search for the children continues in earnest. Tsalta forges on through the woodland, her keen eyes picking out the paw prints among the loam and leaves. Even more paw prints join the trail...a disconcertingly large number, actually. Hm. Tsalta makes small talk with Fergus, since he’s new and all, and tasks herself with making the introductions. It’s all a little awkward, as you’d expect. But she assures him that though we’re a weird bunch, we’re all quite nice! (Aww.) Her foot snags on something, and just in time she looks down to see the rope stretched taut by her feet. Tsalta quickly steps back as a huge log hurtles across the path where her midriff (and most other people’s heads!) would have been. It swings back and forth a few times and comes to a stop. Traps! Even now, traps? Tsalta curses and sighs. At least it means we must be getting close. Keeping vigilant as they continue, the party encounter another tripwire, this one attached to a spiked wooden frame. It’s the kind of thing Tsalta’s used to - great for inconveniencing poachers in the woods. There’s a short squabble over whether to trigger it or leave it or re-rig it in our favour, but in the end an impatient Nothing slams a Mage Hand down on the rope. Better to not have to worry about it if we end coming back through here at speed, right? Before long, the sound of jackalweres snarling and giving orders filters through the trees, alongside the fainter sound of children crying. And then Tsalta feels the resistance and snap of a trip wire at her ankle, and several flares of red light shoot up into the canopy on either side of her. Loudly. Nuth stumbles back in alarm, ducking immediately off to the side to get away from potential view as Tsalta forges forward, declaring, “They’re probably gonna take off, let’s go!” Everyone but Tsalta eager to not be seen, each of the party fan out into the trees as they draw nearer. (Fergus takes it a step further by quite literally going up into the boughs of a tree with the help of his Immovable Rod, hoping for better cover.) Those who get close enough to the camp discover that there are indeed far, far more dog men than ever before. A good two dozen of them, in fact. It looks like they’re already gearing up to leave, roughly shepherding a large group of children (many halfling, some human, a couple that may be elves) off towards the other side of the camp. Two dozen jackalweres is more than Nuth wants to wrangle with, for sure. No way. She’d better be really, really careful to stay hidden. And as she creeps through the underbrush, she’s so focussed on going unseen that she...actually becomes unseeable, her innate magic unconsciously drawing a veil of Invisibility over her without her realising it! Didn’t even cost a spell slot. (Luck dice are so good. Natural 20s on luck dice are so goddamn good.) Faeleth ascends into a tree overlooking the camp, sneaky as you like. She takes position in the branches. She readies her bow, and watches, and waits. You know who’s less careful about hiding? Tsalta’s less careful about hiding. So eager is she to reach the camp and do a rescue, she sprints all the way to the back of the camp...trampling the foliage with thunderous footfalls all the way. Needless to say, she draws attention. One of the jackalweres that isn’t busy kid-herding calls out to her, drawing his scimitar. Come out, he says with a snarl, and he’ll kill her quickly. Elsewise he can make sure to make it slow and painful... “Oh, ye talk big for such an ugly thing,” Tsalta taunts, but the jackalwere just snickers. It bares its fangs in a cruel smile, and in a low growl it replies, “Heh...you’ll taste as good as that cow...” It tosses its head towards a spit over the campfire. Soooo, there’s cows in the area, are there? Tsalta isn’t prepared to fight alone, but she wonders if she can cause enough chaos to distract them. She pulls out her cow-horn, puts it to her lips, and blows. (Lucy rolls an 18 on her luck die. “Can I overrun the camp with cows? Please?”) There’s a clamour of hooves from the undergrowth, and a deep bellowing MOOOOOO. The sneering jackalwere is swept clean off his feet as the charging cow lowers its shaggy orange head and rams him so hard that he’s sent flying, landing in a heap on the ground. Two more highland cows emerge, snorting and stamping, and it’s all the distraction Tsalta needs. Several other dog men draw their scimitars and look towards the kerfuffle, but she’s already slipped back into the treeline. Meanwhile, Fergus tries to jump from tree to tree towards the camp, fails his Acrobatics, and lands on his feet with supernatural softness and grace on the woodland floor. Nuth, invisible, rushes to Tsalta’s side and tugs at her elbow, urging her to get back. Tsalta crouches down to whisper - can Nothing fake other sounds like she did with the thunder? Can she make them think we have them surrounded? Nothing considers it. What if it doesn’t work? She’d rather stalk them as they leave. (Tsalta mulls on how helpful it would be if her dragon friend were here. If only, if only. But oh, he’s so far away, or so says a very low INT roll. In fact, she worries for him a little. Will he be okay, with all the other dragons flying around?) And so the party, from their places among and in the trees, watch on as the jackalweres make ready to leave. That’s when they see the manticores. Plural. Three of the things, just beyond the trees on the other side of the camp, laden with cages that the jackalweres are bundling terrified children into. When they’re done, Fergus watches on as the dog-men fall to all fours and run off as dogs into the trees. So the bad news is three manticores. Causing a ruckus would be suicide. But Nuth suggests we can still follow...at a safe distance. And, perhaps, Tsalta adds, we can get information on where they’re going. Look - the camp’s all but cleared out, but a couple of tents are still moving. One or two dog men we can handle, and maybe they’ll talk under the right kind of pressure. Carefully, cautiously, Fergus emerges from the trees to inspect the camp. Tsalta follows, the invisible Nothing sticking close by. Faeleth, up in her tree, keeps watch. Faint, familiar snarling comes from one tent. Not from the other one, though. Hoping to knock out the quieter occupant, Tsalta brings her warhammer around into the tent, and it very much connects with the figure inside. A very un-dog-like yell of pain rings out from within. Tsalta recognises the voice at once. Albert! She is nothing short of jubilant. Nothing, however, isn’t so astute! “What are you doing?” As Tsalta raises her arm for a delighted second swing, the invisible tiefling grabs her and by what’s really only accidental good timing (and a miraculously high grapple check) shoves her off-balance, sending her sprawling forwards to the floor. “Oi! Wait, that’s a person!” (Faeleth, who just saw Tsalta toppled by an unseeable force, delicately drops from the branches and hurries over to see what’s going on.) Her focus on hiding broken, Nothing flickers back into view. Tsalta scrambles indignantly to her feet, frustrated, “Do you think I’d harm an innocent? I know who it is! It’s-“ There’s the tearing of cloth from across the camp as a jackalwere rips itself free of the tent around it. Startled, Nuth raises her wand and fires off a blast its way. Fergus doesn’t hesitate in launching a dart at it, but as the slathering creature pulls the tiny missile from its shoulder he can see that where should be a remaining puncture wound is...nothing at all. The beast turns to him, fangs bared, and its eyes glow a sickly green. Fight as he may against it, an unnatural sluggishness washes like a wave over the dwarf’s limbs, a leaden heaviness to his eyelids. Fergus collapses asleep on the ground. The tent before Tsalta, Faeleth and Nothing erupts into flame! The cloth burns away to reveal a shocked and rather bruised Albert, his raised hand wreathed in arcane fire. He tries to arrange his face into a more imposing expression...with little success, declaring, “Leave me! Or I shall cook you all!” Tsalta actually laughs. Does he think that’s scary? She heard him whimper, like a second ago. Nuth, though, sees the arcane display and takes a wary step back - what else can he do? Meanwhile, Faeleth makes her move on the jackalwere. Albert swipes at her with his short sword as she turns her back, and she wheels around with a glare - “I’ll deal with you later!” While the creature’s stare is still fixed on Fergus she rushes up behind it and thrusts her rapier through its flank, twisting it out and away as she pulls back her arm. The blood...is a lot. With Faeleth, the blood is kind of always a lot. Ah, Nothing remembers that weedy blue face. “Oh! It’s you. Right. Just a moment-“ Nuth swings out her wand arm with a glance over her shoulder, blasting the jackalwere to the ground in a smoking motionless heap. She snaps her attention back to Albert, her wariness giving way to a grin as the creature's life force siphons into her, “-Anyway!” It’s near effortless for Tsalta to restrain him, her huge arms circling his body, pinning his hands to his sides. Fergus finds himself unceremoniously shaken awake at foot’s length by Faeleth. “Nap time’s over.” He climbs to his feet, dusts himself off, and vents his feeling of having not been much use by kicking the faintly smoking body of what is now just, like, a dead dude. “Albert. Do you want to talk at all?” Tsalta hoiks him up a little higher so he‘s a good few feet from the floor. He scowls, silent and likely a touch humiliated. “I guess not! Perhaps a little bit of encouragement, aye? Can someone hit him?” Magic sparks around Albert’s fingers as he struggles to no avail...and he stops that when Faeleth brings the point of her rapier millimetres from his throat. Nuth, too, trains her wand at his head. He falls still and swallows thickly, eyes darting to each of the party’s stony faces. “...What do you want to know?” He glances down. “There’s-(gulp)-no need for all that...” He shifts uncomfortably in the vicelike grip of Tsalta’s huge arms, “Soooo...What do you want to talk about......friends?” Yeah, right. ‘Friends’, indeed! “Says the guy who summoned a big fuck-off scorpion and buggered off.” He protests that he didn’t summon anything, but when Tsalta scoffs, he stresses it - he really didn’t, no no no, he didn’t summon a scorpion. Right, so he led it into town, whatever, like it makes a difference. He seems almost a bit sheepish to have been caught out. So. Onto the real questions. What’s he doing working for that fucking lady? He claims not to understand, and Nothing scowls and rolls her eyes. “Her,” she says, making exaggerated air quotes, “-‘she who collects’, yeah?” The one taking the kids. “Yes! I was kidnapped, thank you for saving me!” Tsalta calls bullshit. “Sure, sure. So, let’s take that and pretend that’s true. They just left you in a tent, unbound, to do whatever you want, just leaving you to it?” Faeleth ever-so-gently presses the tip of the rapier to his skin, and he starts up a frantic babble of pathetic flimsy excuses. First he was captured, second he freed himself by magic, third he denies having anything to do with the attack on the halfling hamlet because it “wasn’t him”. In the end, Tsalta points out: he was “captured” by them....well, now he’s captured by us. He swallows again. “It seems so.” Faeleth looks to Tsalta. “Can I punch him?” She nods. Sure. Faeleth punches him. It feels great. Bet he wishes he hadn't taken a swipe at her now! "Ow! Ahhh, I'm bleeding." Getting punched in the face unfortunately doesn't make him much more talkative. Now he says he 'can't' talk. What, is he magically bound? "No..." So he's just choosing to be a dickhead? "Kind of?" He leaps on Nothing's question of if he's being blackmailed - yes, yes! That. But his response is so eager, nobody trusts him to be telling the truth. What're they holding over him in that case, asks Tsalta, children of his own? Albert sputters - gods, no! And then he sighs, resigned. "What are you going to do with me?" Well, if he complies and doesn't try any funny business, nothing unpleasant. But Tsalta warns him - today she's not really feeling like the big nice lass. She's not above some blackmail of her own. When he asks what's in it for him, she's quite forthright. "Your life?" "Already forfeit," the genasi replies, simply, "If you let me go, it might not be. She doesn't forgive mistakes." Tsalta doesn't let him go. "You're dead either way, then, so best start talking." He shakes his head - he saw what happened to the last person that helped us. No thank you. 'She' sees all. The party discuss what to do with him - tie him up, at least? Definitely take his weapon. He doesn't resist as Nothing tugs the shortsword out of his hand. Tsalta's hold loosens just a notch - "Listen, I'm going to tone it down just a little. I've-" she pauses, and when she continues she sounds close to tears, "-had a bad few days." Albert just wants safety, which Nuth reckons we can provide. "Sure. We're still here, ain't we?" The genasi looks around the party, then glances a couple of feet further down, and asks, "Weren't there more of you? What happened to your-" The tiefling's fist clenches at her side. Her jaw tightens. As Tsalta said: not a good few days. Perhaps he can put two and two togeth- Nothing punches Albert in the face. (He takes the hint and asks no more about it.) Question time resumes..after Tsalta grants Albert's request for something to eat. With some of Jerry's Special Energy Drink. Given that he's not aware of what it is, he doesn't mind it. Does the Collector know we're having this conversation? "She looks where she wishes. I'd imagine she knows, yes." So can she look in two places at once? He doesn't know. She doesn't let many people close to her inner sanctum. "Honestly, Albert?" Tsalta sighs. "Pissed off as I am, I don't want to actually hurt you. We just want to get back what's been taken from us." The children? How's that been taken from her, she asks? "She's taken from me." Nuth says. "I still don't know why." Isn't she a little...young, to have children? Exasperated, Nothing shakes her head. She didn't bloody make 'em. She found 'em. Looked after 'em when no-one else did. And then Albert, bloody Albert, goes and says, "And that's what we're doing!" Sorry, what? Nothing's instantly in half a mind to punch him again, she grips her wand so tight a stronger hand might break it. "She brought one of mine out in front of me and she was going to kill her. How's that looking after her, huh? No. It ain't, is it." He leans back in Tsalta's arms, not in fear but in something like appraisal, regarding Nothing with a curious eye. "There's more to you...than just your bloodline." He chuckles under his breath. A pause. "I see why she likes you." "The fuck're you on about." He doesn't reply - Albert’s gaze grows distant, unseeing, and he slackens in Tsalta’s arms. Faeleth punches him. No response. Why’d he just fade out like that, what’s he done? Nobody even hurt him! “Oi, oi, oi oi oi, none of that!” Nuth grabs his shoulder and shakes, but the genasi’s head just lolls limply. “Wake up!” Tsalta reckons the Collector's been listening, she's put him to sleep or something to stop him from talking - well, we can just keep him with us, she can't make him sleep forever. ("It'd better not be till true love's kiss, cos that's never gonna happen," she adds with a smirk.) She's about to heft him under one arm when he stirs. But as he comes to, his eyes still seem glazed over, and when he speaks it's not in his own voice but a harmony. Soft, calm, angelic. "I grow tired of these games." Matter-of-fact, Tsalta replies, "So do we." "Come. Be my guests. We can...talk things out." Tsalta makes a drawn-out noise of unease - no, don't really want to, thanks. Albert's head tilts, licks its lips thoughtfully as the Collector eyes her slowly up and down. "I can see why she wants you. I might have to have you for myself." "She?" Now this is confusing. "So you're not the main gal?" "I never said I was. However, collecting this one-" a glance at Nothing, "-was a personal favour. The rest are for me." Tsalta's not liking it one bit. "So, say we did see you? Where do we find you?" A wary Nothing interjects, "And how do we know we'll walk out?" The mouth quirks up in amusement, Albert's body laughs a soft, low laugh. "X marks the spot, my dears. This vessel has served its purpose." Albert’s head twists at a abrupt angle, and there’s a sickening crack. Eyes glassy, he slumps lifeless in Tsalta’s hold. “Shit. What the fuck.” Nothing murmurs into her hands as she backs away, “what kind of magic can do that?” It’s unlike anything she’s ever seen or heard or read of - killing a man without touching him, from so far away? Practical gal that she is, Tsalta's already searching him. There's not much to find on his person, unless you count the evidence of exactly how much Tsalta's ambush scared him. Those underoos are not looking great. So...do we go? X marks the spot, but what will we find if we go there? -- Fergus searches the camp. There’s not much - a little gold, rations, some herbs and bits and bobs that were probably for Albert’s magic, and a book, for the same. The dwarf hands it to Nothing - she does magic, right? This helpful at all? Unfortunately it isn’t. The wizard’s notes are as useless to her as they are to the others - it’s all personal diagrams and notes that must only make sense with context she doesn’t have. Fergus pockets it anyway. He hands Nothing a couple of rations, and she moves to throw them in her bag - wait, the bag was playing up. Hold on a sec. Curious, she turns the satchel upside down and gives it a shake. No result. Tsalta takes notice - “Put Albert’s head in it!” “Why?” “Well, if nothing’s coming out, could see if stuff still goes in.” “Hold on, let me try something.” She remembers a trick for emptying a Bag of Holding in a hurry: flip it inside out, and out it all pops. So she does that! ...None of her (or Spindle’s) stuff emerges. She pulls a face of disgruntlement. “Urgh. Bag’s broke, guys.” “Put his head in it!” Nothing cottons on - Oh! So nobody finds him! That might be a good idea, actually. She turns it back the right way, and the void is gone, the inside turned to mundane cloth. “Uhh. I think it broke so bad it’s just a bag.” She tries it anyway. Just in case. He has a bag on his head. She removes the bag and slings it back over her shoulder - in the end a spare bag’s a spare bag. The party agrees to make use of the empty camp - the evening’s drawing in, and no one fancies wandering the woods. Everyone gathers around the still-burning fire to talk about what happens next. Tsalta thinks it’s time to give up on ‘saving’ the kids. It’s not working - so far, every attempt has failed. They don’t seem to be harming them, for now, so...maybe the best bet is to aim higher. Fergus is suspicious of the number of jackalweres - they’re not turning the kids into the things, are they? The others review their experience and think it unlikely - all the ones we’ve killed have turned into grown men. Fryberg is a big town. Chances are the larger numbers are proportional to the number of kids they aim to steal. But for now, sleep. Nothing crawls into one of the remaining tents - it’s not comfortable nor easy on the nose, but she’s slept in worse places. Fergus crafts himself a crude ‘bed’ of rocks, and Tsalta takes first watch as Faeleth sleeps by her side. In the night, Tsalta hears a commotion from the woodland. The awful multi-chordal screech of a manticore rings out from deep in the trees in the north-west, answered by a deep and furious roar. The creatures clash, snarling, for a while...and all falls still. Her watch continues without incident. Faeleth is gently nudged awake by Tsalta, who fills her in on what she heard. She theorises that perhaps the thing fighting the manticore was a dragon, since she saw one chasing manticores through the sky last night. Then she ties her wrist to the tree Faeleth sits by, leans back against it, and asks for a story to lull her to sleep. Faeleth launches into an improvised tale about a wonderful magic cow...only to find her companion in deep slumber almost the moment she says “cow”. She smiles and gives Tsalta’s arm a fond pat, and leans against her to get comfy for her watch. She, too, hears a skirmish as the hours go on. But this time it’s the clash of swords, the shouts of men and snarls of jackalweres not far away. Eventually the growling and yelling and clang of steel subsides, and all returns to the usual quiet rustling of leaves and faint animal-cries of the night. The sun filters through the trees at last, and Faeleth goes about camp waking everyone. She shares what she heard with Tsalta - there was a kerfuffle last night. But they decide it’s not urgent to investigate. Tsalta unties herself and provides Fergus with quite the rude awakening - still over-used to waking Spindle, she hoists him into the air by the leg. What a way to start the day! She pops him back down and he groans in absolute bafflement - the hell has he gotten himself into... On hearing about the night sounds, Nuth isn’t enthused about checking it out. Probably more of the same, right? Dog men. Let’s go back to town, catch a boat, get going. Tsalta agrees. She’d like to go say goodbye to her parents properly before we set sail. The trail is easier to follow back in the day, and they find the road proper with ease. Ahead, Tsalta is first to spot a cart parked sideways across the path as though to barricade the way, three heavily armoured men clad in shining silver and gold standing in front of it. She approaches before everyone else, waving in greeting and trying to look as unintimidating as possible. One of the men responds, his voice stern and commanding. Now that she’s closer, she can see the emblem on his breastplate: a demon’s skull, wreathed in green fire. “Ho there! What business brings you this way so early in the morning?” She explains that we’re on the road to Fryberg. “Do you have any others with you?” Tsalta says yes, she does, and waves the rest of the party forward to join her. Nothing clocks the armour and her mouth feels dry immediately. The man, in turn, clocks her, and barks, “You there! What’s your name?” “Nothing!” She blurts, “I mean, ah, that’s literally my name!” Tsalta confirms this as true, and also as confusing as fuck. “What were your parents?” Faeleth and Tsalta step up - hold on, that’s very rude! You don’t just go asking people what their parents- “We have our reasons!” Not wanting to cause a confrontation, Nothing quickly reaches into her pocket and pops open her lockets, holding them out for him to see. “They were like me. I didn’t know th-“ He nods curtly. “It’s fine. It’s through heritage, you can pass.” In truth, Nothing has no clue what he’s on about or what’s going on, but she’s very relieved that whatever it means, it means she’s clear. Tsalta is as confused as she is. “Through heritage? Nothing, what are you, again?” She looks up, shrugs. “I’m starting to not know!” What does the guard mean, ‘through heritage’, Tsalta asks? The guard frowns. Does she not know how tieflings are made? Nothing pipes up at that - she doesn’t even know how tieflings are made! The answer sends a fresh wave of anxiety rushing through her system. “Through a pact with a demon.” Oh god. She feels at once afraid that he’ll see it on her somehow, sense his presence, but of course he can’t and the man continues on, “It then becomes hereditary - you cannot help what you are born, but if you choose to be this then you are our enemy.” Wow. She doesn’t know what to make of that. In thought to herself, she wonders if she would count as an enemy or a friend if she’s both of the above? Ever-curious, Tsalta asks if they’ve seen any not through heritage then, recently? Not recently, he says...but in his time, yes. “So, why are you blocking off this road? Are we free to pass?” “You cannot wall these roads and not know of the demons among us. Dogs by one way, men by another.” Ahhhh. They’re here for the jackalweres. Is that what Faeleth heard last night? Tsalta explains that she heard a clanging and clamour of swords in the night. He confirms it - his squads were out hunting the demons, so that’s most likely what she heard. “Successful?” He inclines his head with a proud smile. “We got a few. They got a few back, but we got more.” Given Fergus’ earlier concern, Tsalta checks that they turn back into grown men when they’re killed, yes? Yes, he says. They walk the world as men, but on the inside they are demons from the depths of the Nine Hells. Right, right. So never kids, then. Not what’s babby age for humans. Confused, the guard suggests we perhaps take any further questions to his commander. (Fergus asks for the commander’s name and learns it to be Cerios.) “But first,” he says, “you must pass the test before we can allow you through. Iron cannot hurt these demons, but they walk as men.” He draws a dagger (Nothing sucks in a breath, steps back) and throws it to the ground. “What are we meant to do with that?” asks Nuth. “Show me.” He says. Fergus steps forward, and without a word picks up the dagger and draws it over his palm. He raises it so the guard can see the cut. “Aye, go through.” Fergus walks past, tosses the dagger back to the floor and carries on. Tsalta retrieves it next, grimacing a little and wiping it off on her skirt before reluctantly pricking her finger upon it. “That’s enough, you can pass.” Good! Proper cutting into your hand on a used dagger from the floor? Recipe for infection. She passes it to Faeleth. “That’s unsanitary.” Faeleth regards the offered dagger with open distaste, and draws her own. The man’s gaze fixes instantly on the silver blade. “STOP! We know those weapons. They are issued to our men. Where did you get those.” He narrows his eyes at the elf, and both of the guards lower their spears at her. Nothing stops breathing for a second there, a flash of panic as she remembers the demon hunter’s face as he drove his sword into her side, and then she forces herself to relax her shoulders and starts to spin the lie. “We found a fight, yeah? I know what it looks like, but-“ He cuts across her. Use the iron dagger, he commands Faeleth, then they’ll talk. It’s revolting, but she does it. She pricks her finger on the tip of the blade. “I hope none of you’ve got diseases.” Not content to leave it at that, she cups a hand and shouts out down the road, where the dwarf’s back continues to retreat, “I hope you’ve been tested, Fergus!” Without turning, he raises a hand, middle finger extended for her to see. Nothing takes the knife, does what she has to do, hands it back to the guard. Content that none of the party are dogs in disguise, all three of the men seem less tense and less terse. They still want to know how Faeleth got that knife, though... Omitting and tweaking the exact details, Nothing explains. Back in her home town they came across the scene of a fight - some of your men, she says, and the dogs. "Where's your home?" "Red Larch?" His brow furrows in a frown. He knows of no troops dispatched to Red Larch. Now Nothing's confused, too - no, they definitely did, if they didn't it's really fuckin' weird because they were dressed just like you guys here! She points at the burning skull on his breastplate - they were wearing that, just like him. "What colour were the flames?" "...Red?" She hadn't considered that the colour would make a difference. Apparently it does! The red flames belonged to a troop that went rogue, not understanding or perhaps not caring about the difference between evil and simple heritage. When he's done with his explanation, he gives the tiefling a look of stern concern. She wasn't put in any danger by those men, was she? Still not quite comfortable with openly confessing to a killing, even if they were terrible, she shrugs and keeps her answer vague: she was alright. She got away. "Pray tell, what happened?" Oh gods, he's asking more questions. She stumbles on her words for a second then forces herself to relax, to start to spin a few little white lies around the events of that fateful afternoon. They came across the scene of a fight between those shapeshifter beasts and some of you silver-clad guys, see. Swords and teeth and it all happened so fast, you know? "So how did you come by their weapons? They could easily have dispatched a few dogs." She relies on the man's own previous admission that some of his men fell last night: not all of the guys made it, and she saw how the silver hurt those dogs... That's where she leaves it, hoping to let him fill in the gaps with the idea of herself and the elf grabbing silvered weapons from the fallen and fleeing. He hums a curt, uncertain hum, but says no more, and allows the party passage without further interrogation. If they seek Cerios, ask any of their men in Fryberg, they will provide directions. The party set off down the road at last. Faeleth blows a kiss back at the demon hunters over her shoulder, and the other human man's eyes light up a little. She immediately flips him off. To her great satisfaction, he looks genuinely offended. -- Back to Fryberg, to go say our goodbye-for-nows to Tsalta's parents. She feels (and rightly so!) she really ought to let them know that she's setting off, and where to, this time. Blàths is pottering about in her kitchen making herself breakfast when the party arrives. The relief of seeing Tsalta home safe visibly washes over her, she smiles...and then her face hardens into a frown. Irate, brandishing her wooden spoon, Blàths storms up to a very startled Tsalta, jabbing the utensil up at her with every other word. "I have been worried sick! Where. Have. YOU. BEEN?" Tsalta plucks the spoon out of her hand after the third or fourth poke in the sternum, lifting it far out of reach. "Ma, stop!" Blàths stares up at her, eyebrows raised in expecation, one hand on her hip...and Tsalta bashfully gives her back her spoon. Oh yeah. We were out all night after we left her house for the funeral, weren't we. Oops. Tsalta quickly explains the situation to justify our absence. There's a point when she says "We ran into Willie and Nillie, but not in a particularly nice way-" and Blàths shoots her daughter a wry smile. "Were they being mean to you again?" That's how we learn that Tsalta, in her youth, got teased about her height by a pair of halflings. She's beet-red in the face as her mother shares this childhood embarrassment, and as Nothing encourages her to absolutely tell us all about it, she cries out, "Well I blame you, you slept with a goliath!" OH BOY OH MAN. She just came right out and said it, huh? The instant the words leave her mouth, Tsalta regrets it, she runs damage control as fast as she can - "I talked to Da, wasn't my fault, he let slip!" She all but cowers under her mother's gaze, like a enormous eight-foot-tall child. She pauses. And with surprising grace and calm, Bràiths not only acknowledges that fact, but goes on to say she doesn’t have any regrets - it may have cost her relationship with Braitach, but from it she gained Tsalta, so she would not wish to change a thing. These things happen. Wait - she’s not with Da any more for real? Or is there some, you know, polyamorous situation......? No, no. They split not long after Tsalta left, and in honesty, at that point their relationship had only been maintained for her sake. Bràiths very quickly diverts the topic before Tsalta can carry on questioning! What does she want for breakfast? Again, she becomes as though a child - a big soppy smile and puppy-dog eyes on her face, she’d love eggs. (Quick, everyone else, say you want eggs, Ma makes them so nice and also can she steal some from everyone’s plate please?) Unfortunately we never get breakfast - the conversation quickly turns back to the events of last night, and along the way we learn that Fergus is a friend of Bràiths’! ...Not in that way, no. In fact, he’s a builder by trade, he helped renovate the house quite a few years back, adding a basement below Tsalta’s bedroom. But yeah. We...didn’t rescue the kids, and so...we thought we ought to say goodbye before we left. “Didn’t stop you last time.” The resentment of three decades of abandonment, unfortunately, isn’t something that gets undone in a few days. Many profuse apologies later from Tsalta, her mother softens up a little. Well, before she goes, there’s a present she was saving for her daughter’s twentieth birthday, and better late than never. She explains, as she retrieves and unfolds a ginormous green-and-black cloak, that it’s a keepsake from her biological father. When asked, she...can’t remember his name. It was a long time ago, and she didn’t know him for long. “MA! Ma, you dirty woman!” Gobsmacked, Nothing tugs sharply at Tsalta’s hem and hisses her name in disbelief. She doesn’t expect to be rounded on by Bràiths, who doesn’t need any defending, it seems - “Yes, dear? Speak up.” “Tha’s...that’s not how you speak to-“ “Is that so? And how would you speak to your mother?” OUCH. Tsalta very quickly interposes herself so she’s the sole target of her mother’s ire! Back to her, please! Anyway, yes, the cloak. She motions Tsalta to bend down and lift her hair so she can fasten it about her shoulders - it has some quite unique properties that she thinks her daughter will appreciate. It has a command word: ‘blow’. Why doesn’t she try it out? “....Blow?” As though caught in a dramatic gust of wind, the cape billows out behind her, rippling with some unseen breeze thereafter. Cooooool! Nuth wants a go! She finds herself utterly swamped as Tsalta dutifully pops it on for her. “Blow!” And out it billows - though she kind of has to lean forward to gain the full effect. Tsalta snorts. “Looks like you’re doing a really strong fart...” She blows a raspberry, and all goes to chaos. ...One uproarious fit of the giggles later, it’s finally time to go. The party bid their farewells. Fergus amazes the lot (save Bràiths, who’s likely seen this countless times before) as he forgoes the long climb down with a single leap, drifting like a damn feather to the forest floor. Tsalta looks down at him, impressed. “You’re a little flying monkey, aren’t you?” She commands her cloak to blow, and runs down the spiral-carved stairs with arms outstretched, looking for all the world like a little (well, quite large) kid playing at being a superhero. Nuth and Faeleth, with no such fancy tricks up their sleeves...just walk down, like regular people. We seek out the first guy in shiny demon-hunter armour we can find. Not tricky, there’s a few of them about! He’s a stout, well-muscled dwarf, and on sighting Fergus he looks him up and down before asking, “Where’s the rest of ya?” It’s a joke he’s heard waaay too many times already. Dwarves of his stature are rather an oddity, the ribbing he gets from his fellows is more or less inevitable. He employs his tried and tested method of dealing with it: staring back deadpan, without a word. He gives Nothing a wary look, and Tsalta pulls the kid in protectively to her side. “She’s been cleared.” Affable girl that she is, the big lass does the chatting, and the party are cheerfully directed towards the dwarven side of Fryberg where the regiment commander resides. It’s not hard to find, especially with Fergus on hand who identifies the large stone building with ease. He helped with some of the construction! The party states their business to the man at the door - here to see Cerios, got inquiries about shapeshifters. “We’ve been dealin’ with them ourselves, so-“ “Dealing with them?” He cuts across, glowering. “You make deals with-“ Nuth rolls her eyes, “-''Dealing'',” She pantomimes thrusting a blade, a stab for each word, “With. Them.” Understanding now her meaning, a wry smile breaks across his face and he nods. Not easy to kill, are they? How’ve we been managing it? She shrugs. Magic helps? “Have all of you got magic?” That’s Tsalta’s cue to command her cloak into magnificent flowing life, of course. But no, not all of us have magic. Satisfied that we’re legit, he opens the door to allow the party through. The room is bedecked with tactical maps and diagrams, it’s clear to see that those who work here have been mapping jackalwere activity and trying to track their movements. A silver-haired man sits at a desk central to the room, amongst the bustle of the other members of the order as they go about their business. His slender frame, pointed ears and fine features mark him at once as elven, the dark ashy tone of his skin narrowing his heritage further to drow. Where most of the armoured men sport blue cloaks, his is silver, and his garb is just generally more ornate. It’s safe to assume this is probably Commander Cerios! Fergus stares at him. And keeps staring, just looking absolute daggers at the guy, as though he expects him at any moment to...aggress him, perhaps? Well, anyhow, we introduce ourselves, state our business. He asks for details on our experiences, and when Nothing mentions Red Larch, he takes note: there have been attacks on Red Larch too, then. He takes his quill and marks another X onto his map. He’s a picture of efficiency - as Nothing talks, he’ll pause her to clarify a detail here or there before noting it down. “Okay, they were taking street children specifically, I see.” Do we have any further useful information? He’s all ears. Nuth falters. She dunno what counts as useful. In that lull, Cerios notices Fergus’ air of intensity and coolly remarks, “Keep staring, and I’ll cut your beard off.” The others, who hadn’t yet noticed, turn and chide him. Oi, Fergus! What’s your beef, chill out yeah? Impatient now, he urges Nothing to spit it out. Her face scrunches in indecision... “Is it safe?” She looks at Cerios, looks at her friends, then huffs in resignation. “Fuck it. Nothin’s safe, is it. You got the map?” Tsalta spreads it out on the table, and Nothing points at the mark Hand left for them: there, right, is somewhere we have reason to believe is some kind of...base of operations. We dunno what’s there, yet. That’s clearly not what he wanted to hear. We come here with I-don’t-knows? It’s the best we’ve got? We were given a lead by an inside guy, who...isn’t with us any more, we regret to say. Cerios grows quiet, contemplative. Did we meet him? Did we know what he looked like? “Blue,” says Nothing. “Dark skin, small,” says Tsalta. Oops, crossed wires. That’s the problem when you have two dead guys who both could be considered to be ‘on the inside’, huh. Okay, correction, we had a couple of leads. It’s Hand’s description he hones in on. Dark skinned - a halfling, yes? What became of him? He was one of their agents, and he hasn’t heard word from him for weeks. “Nothing pretty,” Nuth says. Unconsciously, Tsalta’s fingers flit up to scratch at the ear her Stone of Farspeech is tied beside, as she puts it far more bluntly: “He’s dead.” Well, that’s not auspicious news. Hand had told Cerios of potential contacts, people who could have been useful - what do we know of them? Nuth starts to hesitate again, “I worry I’ve said too much already. I wouldn’t want to bring anything down on you guys.” Now he wonders what we’re not telling him. We come to him, only to say that? Fergus breaks his silence - “Are you not going to tell him what happened last night, at the camp?” “That’s what I mean!” Nuth turns back to the drow, uncertain and more than a little fearful, “We’re dealing with something I think is bigger than I understand right now. Big-deal stuff.” In that case, it’s better we talk in private. He motions to a side-room with a table, ushers us inside to sit down. Tsalta picks up where Nothing left off: we all - Cerios included - should be careful in our words. Nowhere’s safe wherever we go. We’re watched. “You deal with demons, right? Do you deal with magic?” Nuth’s anxiety is rising, more certain by the moment that every word she says could be making its way straight back to the Collector, “Do you know ways to hide from magic?” “What kind of magic?” “The kind that watches. Scryin’.” And then he laughs. He leans back in his chair with a chuckle, smiles, draws a pendant from under his clothing. “Nothing within thirty feet of me can be scryed upon.” The air leaves Nothing all at once, she steadies herself with a hand against the table. “There has never been anything I’ve been happier to hear.” Tsalta exclaims in relief. So, now. What information have we for him? The whole story now, no secrets. And so we tell him. The whole story, from the suspicion of Hand to the acquisition of the map, to Her - he stops us there, who is ‘she’? And we explain about the Collector, how she killed Hand and killed Albert (we end up not needing to explain Albert, he’s no small part of the reason the demon hunters are in town), about the kidnappings, the manticores. Manticores? This is worse than he thought. How many have we seen? “Seen three, killed one,” says Tsalta, and Cerios gives the whole party a look of surprise and perhaps a measure of respect. We killed one? Well, then. And what of this Collector, who is she, what does she look like? “She’s pretty, but she’s fuckin’ terrifying!” begins Tsalta, “She’s part lady, part...lion-“ In that moment a look of realisation and shock passes over the commander’s face. Everyone’s worried at seeing that look - what is it, what does he know, does he know who or what she is? He knows what - a rare, powerful creature. A lamia. Very bad. “And those can kill people without touchin’ them?” Nuth asks. He doesn’t reply straight away, he asks if we searched Albert’s body. If we found any brandings, scars. We say we didn’t see any, but...we weren’t looking. So we don’t know. Why, is it something we should be looking out for? Well, he explains, it would indicate a particular type of magic. Branding. Ownership. Lamia deal with slaves, brand them to make them unwilling participants in their plans. ....well, that tracks with what we know. Magic blackmail sounds about right. Cerios borrows our map again for a moment, points out the mark on it. The only thing in that area is the Ruins of Geheimmis, he says. Not much is known about them, save a rumour that they’re cursed. But if that’s where Hand pointed us, and where she pointed us, he’d put his money on that being where she’s hiding. He offers to spare his men to provide aid, should we plan to go there ourselves. Warns of raids on the Einhorne road - no worries, we’re going by boat. Grateful, the party accept the offer, but Nuth has one last question: that pendant of his...is there a place we could get one? “Why would you want one?” “Cos she’s watching us. She’s watching me.” Tsalta backs her up: all of us here are being personally followed. And it dawns on Cerios, whose tone becomes at once very forceful - these ‘persons of interest’ Hand told him of, why did we never tell him it was us? Why is the Collector following us? Oh, it’s us? Oh. We didn’t know, and we don’t know why. Half of why we’re doing what we’re doing is because of wanting to understand why. But if it helps, Nuth knows the Collector has a...family member of hers, sort of. “But I don’t know them, never known them. I’ve grown up in Red Larch since I was two. Wanna understand this as much as anyone else does.” And the others? Why them? Fergus seems to finally be loosening up around the drow man as he shrugs - he met these guys just the other day, he thinks yesterday, he has no clue! He’s a little dazed, if he’s honest? Cerios chuckles under his breath and extends a hip flask to the dwarf. Here, in that case, this might help. Fergus takes a swig of what he discovers to be quite high quality port. Perhaps this guy isn’t so bad. As for Faeleth, what of her? She explains as briefly as she can, not particularly comfortable with returning to the topic of assassinating Nothing’s family. And the Collector has her mother, so. “You travel with someone who killed your family?” “Yeah. It’s complicated.” “....Okay. One more thing.” He pulls a smooth grey stone from his pocket and sets it down on the table, telling us all to touch it and declare that everything we’ve said is true. After a little confusion and a little testing, the party all take their turn with the lie detector stone, confirming their story. As the stone glows white for the fourth and final time, he sighs. “In which case, it seems you will be needing this more than me.” He takes off his pendant. He writes something on a parchment that he folds and seals. And he passes them across the table, to the party. He indicates the letter, “Take this to Darius. He is my second-in-command, and he will help you.” As for the pendant, well. Without this, he doesn’t doubt she will be looking at him, so there will be precious little more help he can provide without it. He will send a small elite unit to the ruins, awaiting our arrival, and he prays we find them safely. Tsalta warns him of the importance of names. Nuth takes the locket. “Stay safe.” He wishes us luck, tells us we can gain more silver weapons at the armoury with Darius. “I hate to say it, but...it seems we are relying on you. I don’t like to put my faith in strangers, but I wish you the best of luck.” And we him. Fergus actually expresses concern, tells Cerios to be careful that he is not visited now her eyes can find him. He smiles, nods. He can take care of himself. Last of all, he confers a symbol of the order to us - a demon hunter’s cloak, clasped with their crest. Nothing eagerly volunteers to be the one who wears it. One: it’s snazzy as hell. (It looks quite out of place on the rest of her scruffy gear, but whatever.) Two: she’s a demon wearing a demon hunter cloak, and that’s great. Darius isn’t hard to find, luckily. He goes over the plan with us: he will send us with his men by the river to Einhorn, where we can meet with more demon hunters to aid us. We can stock up there, resupply. Once everyone is ready, then the journey to the ruins can begin, and we can meet with the unit Cerios has sent ahead. Fergus, Faeleth and Tsalta stock up from the makeshift armoury, kitting themselves out with silvered blades and arrows at his recommendation. “Ya got anything more...basic? Like a knife?” Nuth asks, “Just cos I’m handy enough with a dagger but I can’t use a sword for shit.” He hesitates - the daggers are really only issued to the troops, but...he supposes he can see who has some spare. Before long, one of his guys comes back with not one but three silver daggers. Fab! Tsalta takes a quick detour to leave a note at her Da’s house to say she’ll be back, and then it’s off to the docks. They mill about until the guys they’re set to meet arrive - one an elf, armed with a bow, and the other a human carrying sword and shield. Nothing waves hello - “Ay-up.” The elf stares at her, glances down at the crest, back up to her red, horned face. Yes, exactly the reaction she’s here for. She flashes him a knowing smile. “Ironic. I know.” The humour isn’t lost on the man, to her quiet delight he lets out a chuckle. And then we share the plan, as laid out with Darius - to Einhorn! Tsalta dubs our companions Tom and Jerry - best they don’t share their true names with us, eh? We knock on the door of a boat moored by the river, and the door is answered by a chirpy gnomish man. What can he do for us today, then? To charter the boat would be four-hundred gold, he says...but luckily Fergus knows the guy. It’s Chip, right? A fellow member of the builder’s guild. Fergus flashes the crest of his trade. “How about a friendly rate?” Once the dwarf identifies himself as another guildsman, the gnome quickly drops the price to a far more affordable hundred. Faeleth leaves the paying to Fergus and Nothing, who go halves. She’s flat broke, you see, definitely not several hundred gold burning a hole in her pocket, absolutely not. (They buy it hook line and sinker, having never actually seen her acquire...pretty much any of it. Before they pay, she suddenly “remembers” that she “has some gold”. And by that, she means the fool’s gold from the mine. Chip is having absolutely none of it - try that again and it’s full price.) Off onto the river we go, then! It’s a nice little boat, comfy, cosy, Chip has a big soppy shepherd dog and goodness is it nice to be around a real honest-to-goodness canine again. Nothing is particularly grateful for its presence, bittersweet as sitting petting a big furry animal is so shortly after losing Spindle, there’s just something reassuring about a dog that’s just a dog. Meanwhile, Tsalta indulges in some gratuitous cape-billowing shenanigans up on the deck, briefly obscuring Chip’s view by kneeling up on the prow and spreading her arms as the cape flaps in the wind behind her. Faeleth gets in on the Titanic reference, of course, and they sing a little duet together up there. The bromance intensifies! The evening wears on. The barge drifts its way past Red Larch. Nothing leans on the banister of the boat, looking at her hometown and feeling all kinds of confusing mixed emotions. It's home - she sees familiar trees, the rooftops she's scrambled across with someone's bedroom blanket tucked under her arm, the duckpond she'd dabble her feet in on a summer's day - but there's nothing left for her there now. Or is there? There's signs and billboards erected along the riverside, there to catch the eye of those who sail by. And one of them is advertising an auction at The Bended Bough this evening - "one of a kind magic items", apparently. Maybe it's worth stopping by after all! ...So they do. Chip moors the boat, and the party make their way to the local tavern, which is bustling with activity. There are many unfamiliar faces - looks like the auction's drawn attention of fancy-folk from out of town. There's elves here, dwarves, and most of them rather upper-class. From inside there's the bubble of conversation and oh-so-refined clinking of wineglasses. And who should be manning the door but Alf? Aww. It feels like forever ago that we last saw him. Much like meeting a dog that's just a dog, seeing Alf again is comforting if not nostalgic - a strange sensation, when it's been barely over a week. "Alright!" He waves a chipper hello to Nothing, "How's it going? Got some new friends there, who's this you've got here then?" She gives him a broad, indulgent smile, introduces Tsalta and Fergus. He bobs his head to them both - lovely to meet you, yes, yes, are we here for the auction? Yeah? "Well then, come on in!" He waves everyone through cheerfully. The party station themselves inside, pulling up chairs at a table towards the back of the room. (Tsalta in particular has a little trouble with furniture mainly built for halflings. Perhaps she pulls up a whole table.) Before proceedings begin, there's a speech from the baron. It's all a bunch of crap about how this town cares so much for its orphans and its poor, so all proceedings will be donated to the local orphanage. Nothing snorts, incredulous. Bull! It takes a whole lot of willpower not to stand up and shout as such - there's no question that the profits will be lining his pockets. Eventually the baron finishes spouting garbage, thank the gods, and the auction begins! First is a suit of shining silvery plate armour - the auctioneer (who appears to be the town magistrate - huh!) declares that it's powerfully magical, impervious to all regular forms of assault. Wow, pretty cool if true. Everyone sends Nothing, their 'resident magic expert' (she's starting to regret sharing information she's been whispered - they think she knows so much more than she does, don't they?) to go check it out during the five-minute period where auctiongoers are permitted to examine the item. It's magic, all right. Very magic! Probably exactly as described. But hell if anyone wants to bid against the toffs, especially when it starts at 400 gold pieces. They can keep their fancy armour, thanks! Even Faeleth doesn't have that much to spare. Next up is a "Wand of Blasting" which Nothing determines to literally just be a nice stick. Joke's on the sucker that buys it! A pair seated across the room, a dwarf and an elf, get in a heated bidding war to get it - one of them does, but who cares which, they're both fools. Third is an apparently very magic cloak. It's not very magic - in fact, it's not magic at all - but it is gorgeous. The thing's a masterwork of shimmering black cloth with elegant silver and gold filligree detailing and a very tasteful clasp design. Faeleth is smitten at once. When bidding begins, she gets stuck in - ten gold, fifteen, twenty...but that damn elf and dwarf are bidding against her, and at twenty-five she lets it go. The elven man wins the auction. The words 'lets it go' are here used to mean, 'decides at once that she's going to find that elf and steal her beautiful cloak right off of his back at the first opportunity she gets'. And last of all, the magistrate-slash-auctioneer announces a mystery magic box - unopened, sealed magically, a mystery auction! Of course, the party can't resist a mystery. Nothing can tell the box is locked magically, for sure, but can't tell what's within - magic or otherwise. The bidding is fierce, but Tsalta and Faeleth strike a deal to go halfsies on it (perplexing Fergus - hey, didn't Faeleth say she was flat broke?) and eventually Faeleth's hand is the only one that rises to claim the box for a hundred gold pieces. The magistrate points out to her - "SOLD! To the elven lady with the-" His eyes narrow. "I know you..." Know her he may, but she's bid for it fair and square, and in exchange for a hundred gold the party gallivants back to the boat with their box! ...Now...how to open it? Fergus suggests smashing it, but everyone else intervenes - no, it's lovely! Faeleth attempts to pick the lock, and under her expert fingers she certainly feels the tumblers click with the satisfying finality she's accustomed to. Still won't open. Because it's magically sealed. (She tries asking it aloud to open, but alas.) Fergus goes out on a limb and leafs through Albert's magic book, and actually finds a page with notes on...a key. A key that Tsalta, reading over his shoulder, recognises at once as one she has tied into her hair. It has, it says, a slim chance of opening any lock when used. So Tsalta relies on good old-fashioned laws of probability. Enough tries with the key, and eventually that five-percent chance will come to pass! The good news: She gets the box open! The bad news: It takes her the best part of three hours. Inside, to her and Faeleth's delight, is a mass of gold and silver coins - they've made their money back on the sale in duplicate! And nestled in the coinage are two humongous diamonds. They take one each! The final treasure is a silver ring, inlaid with a blue gemstone. Nothing feels magic from it, but to everyone's disappointment can't say more than that. (She feels a little awkward under all the expectation - her patron's hardly going to chip in to explain a Ring of Whatever.) Fergus can tell it's a nice stone, well-cut. Tsalta slides it onto her little finger, and muses on what magic it might hold. It's blue, so...water magic, maybe? She dunks her head off the side of the boat and discovers that she definitely can't breathe underwater. Time shall tell! Night falls, Nothing goes off to relish the experience of sleeping in a comfortable bed on board the barge. Faeleth takes Tsalta aside. Does she fancy going to get that cloak back? Tsalta, at this point utterly seduced by the thrill of a bit of light larceny, is absolutely on board. And so the two of them head on back out to the town - after a quick Q&A session with Nothing about the local taverns and layout of Red Larch in general. They check The Bended Bough, ask the barkeep if he's seen a fancy elf about. They claim to have befriended him earlier and that he said he was going to meet them, but he's not shown. Sure, he's seen a bunch of fancy elves! But the one they're asking after, well, he left after the auction. Ain't seen him since, he's afraid. Onwards, to The Wandering Elk on the main road. Here, the clientele isn't so fancy - the atmosphere is lively and jovial, but the folk at the bar seem to be passers-through and the servants of the fancy lot in town for the auction. They manage to learn that most of the auctiongoers have been invited to a dinner party over at the baron's place, so... To the baron's manor! And indeed, there's the hum of conversation from beyond the manor's garden wall, occasional peals of haughty laughter, glasses chinking as someone makes a toast. They move in close to the wall, among the well-manicured bushes (save one, which is missing a lot of its branches in the middle). But alas, the wall is too high for Tsalta to peek over... "Wanna get on my shoulders?" Tsalta grins down at the elf. Faeleth's loving that plan. "Yes." And so she's hoisted up astride the half-goliath's huge shoulders like a parent might hoist a child for a piggy-back ride. "Oy!" A voice rings out from not far down the street. "What you doing?" The pair look towards the source of the chiding shout, and it's Alf, hands on hips. Faeleth waves down to him. "Oh, hello! You alright there?" He cocks an eyebrow. "What're you doing...." They um and ah. They...juuuuust....wanted to see the baron! Tsalta introduces herself! She kneels down to get to a more sensible (read: slightly patronising) eye level with him, lifting Faeleth down from her shoulders. "Nice to meet you! Hi pal, we're just looking for the baron..." Alf gives a skeptical hum. Faeleth responds, deadpan, "I've changed my ways." "Seems like it. On your way." He has no interest in her protestations. "Don't want to hear it, on your way!" Tsalta breezily accepts, and...walks around to the other side of the manor. Faeleth sighs and shakes her head with a smile, hand on one hip. She waves her free hand at Alf as though to sweep away his blustering. "Now, now. Alfred. Alfred. Alfred, Alfred, Alfred. Aaaalfred. It's been such a long time, how've you been? It's been, what, six months? How's the wife and kids?" She smiles, sweet as honey. (It's been a fortnight at best.) He seems to resign himself to the elf's stubbornness. "Okay, look. You've been in this town long enough, so I'm sure you understand how things work around here." He continues. Let him put it this way...he doesn't like arresting people, and well, he's easily distracted. He raises a hand - now, say, if in this hand he had something shiny, he might forget he saw anyone! That seems fair. How's five gold? "Insulting." Ten....fifteen....? "Fif-''TY''. Five-zero or you're going back to jail." Faeleth crosses her arms, looks down her nose at him with a smirk. Jail? But what has she done wrong, exactly? She's not committed a single crime here today, she has been only a model citizen. Now, what would be bad is word getting out that Alfred neglects his guardly duties for anyone who flashes a bit of coin. "Tells you what, since we're at a bit of a stand-off...thirty-five gold and I'll forget you're here." "Call it thirty and I might forget what a terrible baker you are." And bless his sweet heart, bless his cotton socks, dear little Alf doesn't even defend himself. He scuffs the ground with a foot, shrugs, eyes downcast a little, and agrees. "Yeah, you got a point, there's a reason I'm takin' bribes." She pops thirty gold into his hand and he thanks her for it, and walks away whistling. Faeleth whistles Tsalta back to reconvene at the wall. It's time to steal her cloak.